Jump to the Left
by psychochick1
Summary: Takes place immediately following 5x14 MBV. Help comes in many forms. Dean should've been more specific what he was asking for.


Dean stumbled out of Bobby's house, needing to get away. The silence of the junkyard did nothing to stop the echo of Sam's screams in his ears, the shadow-shrouded hulks unable to erase the memory of his brother's messy red-stained mouth, oily black creeping at the edges of his eyes.

He'd never regretted trading himself for Sam before. But now, with memories of Hell slashing vividly through his dreams and the ruined echoes of his brother's fall all around, he wondered if he should've just let Sam stay dead. No resurrection, no subtle changes as Sammy was lost forever, no Hell, no breaking the First Seal, no leaving his brother alone and grieving at the mercy of a manipulative bitch. No setting Lucifer free.

That was on him. His fault for being so goddamn selfish. He'd doomed Sam by saving him.

Ever since Castiel had pulled him out of Hell, Dean had wondered why. He wasn't a righteous man, or even a particularly good man. He'd broken down in Hell, let Alistair carve him into his own likeness, had picked up the razor and liked it. Fuck, he'd _loved _it. And his weakness had started the Apocalypse.

How the fuck was he supposed to deal with that?

He'd fucked everything up. He doomed Sam, doomed the world, got Ellen and Jo killed. He felt all those failures right down to what was left of his soul, a deep dark hole that sometimes was numb, but at other times, like now, ached so fiercely he could barely catch his breath. Dean kept going through the motions, trying to keep going, to atone for his sins, but every day it got harder just to summon enough energy to get out of bed.

The mere thought of the future, of what their supposed destiny held, the battles still waiting on the horizon . . .

In that, Famine was right – he was already dead inside.

Stopping by his car, the only faithful thing in his life, Dean considered the bottle again, but lowered it, recognizing the futility. The whiskey burned, but not enough to touch the fog of despair growing ever thicker inside him. Alcohol had ceased to be a useful stopgap around the time his brother left him for dead in a trashed hotel room. The same brother who now begged and pleaded, crying out in pain as he detoxed from another hit of demon blood.

Shit. When had everything gotten so fucked up?

In desperation Dean looked up, towards the dark expanse of unresponsive sky. He believed, all right. He _knew_ there was someone or something up there.

He just wasn't sure if it/he/them actually cared.

"Please. I can't . . ." Dean swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, eyes and nose stinging.

"I need some help." He waited, hoping, stifling a sob. Pleading. "Please?"

Silence. Not that Dean had really expected anything different. The angels were only interested if he was going to bend over and grab ankle for Michael.

Shaking his head, Dean turned to go inside . . . and jumped at the sight of someone behind him.

"Hey Dean," the Trickster – Gabriel – grinned at him.

Dean tried to find the energy to be angry, but could only manage a vague irritation. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"You asked for help, remember?" Gabriel ran a critical gaze over him. "A lot of help, if you ask me. A shrink, a puppy . . . an AA sponsor . . ."

"Fuck off," Dean growled, pushing past him. He so wasn't in the mood.

"You really think they're listening up there?" Gabriel asked pointedly. "Zachariah and his crowd have just about washed their hands of you and this whole planet. Some are choosing to follow Lucifer, since he at least seems to be doing something, and you are so not their favorite person. Michael only wants to hear one word from you." He smirked wryly. "And God? Well, if He ever bothers to come back, maybe he'll check his messages."

"So what, you came here just to tell me that?" Dean frowned at the angel. "For that matter, how'd you find me here?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Heard you two chuckleheads ran afoul of a Horseman, and Sam fell off the wagon again. This was the logical place for you to run to and lick your wounds." He stepped closer, meeting Dean's eyes seriously. "Why do you keep fighting your destiny? You know you're just making everything harder."

"Because I have to believe that I have choices, that my life means more than a chess piece." Dean shook his head, so damn tired with this argument. With all of it. "Because I've fought all my life to protect people. If I give in to Michael, he and Lucifer will have a bitch-fight that'll waste half the planet. How many innocent people will die? I can't . . . no."

"As opposed to the innocent people dying now because Lucifer's prancing about on Earth? Because you and Sam let him out."

Dean whirled and slammed Gabriel up against the rusted body of a pickup, getting right into his face. "Because we had both angels and demons jerking us around, trying to jumpstart the Apocalypse," he gritted out. "Because you douchebags don't give a rat's ass about humanity during your epic pissing match! You think we wanted to be dragged into this?"

"You think we wanted to have our keys to Paradise depend on you two morons?" Gabriel snapped back. "They started it because they want this to be _over._ No more waiting, no more watching as you stupid humans tear each other apart and destroy the Garden Father created. We want everything back the way it was before!"

"Yeah, well, so do I," Dean said. "Before all this demon crap, before you dicks started messing with things, before Sam . . ." He shook his head and released Gabriel with a sigh, turning away.

Gabriel straightened his clothes, considering Dean with sharp eyes. "You're never going to say yes, are you?"

"No." Dean swiped his hand over his mouth, truth bitter on his tongue. "And if Sam even thinks about it . . . . I'll kill him myself." Because he'd learned his lesson. There were some things worse than death, and he'd rather his brother die a human than a monster. He'd fulfill his last promise to his dad – if he couldn't save Sam, he'd kill him.

"Cain and Abel all over again," Gabriel muttered with an exasperated huff. "Y'know, I warned Sam about this. Your obsession with saving each other, the way you two keep sacrificing yourselves, nothing good comes out of it. Only blood, and pain. But no, he didn't listen."

"Was that when you stuck him in a time loop and made him watch me die a hundred different ways? If so, bad timing, dude," Dean said sarcastically.

"Actually, it was after the Wednesday he watched you die one last time and spent the next six months hunting me down."

Dean barely restrained himself from punching the trickster-angel right in the face. Gabriel hastily put up his hands. "Hey, I was trying to teach him a lesson. Learn to let you go, make him strong and independent."

"Great job on that one, genius!"

"Hey! I was trying to do him a favor. If he hadn't been so damn focused on saving you and getting revenge, he never would've taken up with that hell bitch demon."

"He was grieving, you little shit! Sam and I, we're all we have, and I . . . I never should've left him alone." Dean swallowed hard, looking back towards the house, ears straining for the screams he knew were there. "You don't understand. What do you know about love anyway?"

"I know it's what tore Michael and Lucifer apart," Gabriel told him. "I know it's what drives people to do stupid, crazy, unimaginable things. I know it's what's killing the two of you." He sighed heavily. "And I know it's probably the only thing that'll save anybody now."

He stepped closer to Dean, eyes piercing. "So, if you could go back and change things, what would you do?"

Dean frowned down at him. "What d'you mean?"

"Just that. If you could change things, in the past, so you wouldn't end up here, what would you do?"

"Don't you fucking toy with me," Dean growled at him. "Cas did that same thing, sent me back to try and stop it, but I couldn't."

"You're right. You couldn't change your parents' destinies. Mary made her own choices, and she always ended up in that nursery. But what about you? What would _you _do differently?"

Hadn't he just been thinking about that? There were so many things Dean wished he'd done differently, that would've changed the outcome, that could've prevented any one of the thousand horrible things in their lives.

Convinced Sam to go with him, not Ruby. To not sneak out and practice with her.

Said no to the angels when they ordered him to torture Alistair.

Killed Ruby any one of the dozen chances he'd had.

Held on and not broken in Hell.

Figured out Bela's agenda and prevented her from stealing the Colt.

Not have sold his soul to Hell.

Gotten to Cold Oak just a minute earlier and stopped Jake from killing Sam.

Encouraged Sam that he wouldn't go dark, no matter what.

Gone with Tessa the reaper at the hospital.

Realized something was wrong with his dad earlier.

Hell, for that matter, he should've just left Sam at Stanford, safe and happy.

So many possibilities. So many choices.

"A lot of things," he finally answered, despair thick and cloying in his chest. Was free will real, or just an illusion? Did they actually have choices? Or was destiny really irrefutable?

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow at him. "You wanna know a little secret, boyo?" He crooked his finger to gesture Dean in close enough to whisper. "The angels think it's destiny, preordained, because they see the big picture, how it's all supposed to turn out. So they manipulate, play the hands of fate, in order to make it so. You don't even realize how much they had to screw with you two to make you turn against each other.

"But," he continued at Dean's irritated confusion, "they're just pawns too. We don't get free will, not as you humans do, so they don't understand choices. They don't consider the little things. As they say, the devil's in the details."

Dean stepped away with a scowl. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Gabriel smirked, big and annoying. "That's for me to know, and you to figure out." With a flourish, he snapped his fingers.

Dean snapped awake, flailing for a second in the unfamiliar surroundings as he tried to remember where he was. Generic motel room, only one bed, his bag and clothes strewn across the bed and dresser. Huh?

He blinked, rubbed his eyes. He didn't feel hungover, which was par for the course lately. So why didn't he remember anything since talking to Gabriel in Bobby's junkyard?

He grabbed his phone from the bedside table to check the time, then double checked to be sure. How'd he lose the whole night?

"Damn Trickster," he muttered, shoving his phone in his pocket as he headed for the bathroom. Flipping on the light, he avoided looking in the mirror as he splashed water on his face and drank some to wet his dry mouth. Glancing up for a towel, he inadvertently met his reflection . . . and froze.

That wasn't his face.

Well, technically it _was,_ just not the one he remembered having anymore. Cautiously he reached up, watching the image's hand come up to, to prod at his cheeks, his forehead, the touch confirming what he was seeing. That was impossible.

Suddenly frantic, he yanked up the left sleeve of his shirt, baring his shoulder.

Castiel's hand-brand was gone. Instead, he saw the faint scars from the black dog when he was seventeen, the pink line where a poltergeist had thrown him through a window and Dad had to stitch the gash closed. Scars that had been erased when he was resurrected from Hell. He ran tentative fingers over the skin. There were no puckering scars from gunshot wounds, though.

What the---

Yanking out his phone, he suddenly noticed that it wasn't his current phone. He hadn't had this one in a few years. Ever since the car crash, in fact. Pressing the button to check the date, he had to read it twice before it sank in.

October 22, 2005.

Knees wobbly, he staggered out to sit down on the bed, glancing around the room. Now it vaguely recognized it. Lawton, Texas, where he'd gone to wait for Dad away from the madness that had become Louisiana. He'd wrapped up the loa job in New Orleans right before Hurricane Katrina hit, and stuck around the north part of the state to help out until Hurricane Rita came howling in. Hell, if he turned on the TV right now, he'd bet he'd see them covering that last mother, Wilma, down in Mexico.

He scrolled through his phone log. Sure enough, the last call he had was from Dad, listed as the day before, with a voice message.

Chuckling almost hysterically, Dean buried his face in his hands. Dad was alive. Sam was at Stanford. And he . . . he knew the future.

"What do you think, kiddo?" came the boisterous voice, and Dean's head shot up to find Gabriel lounging against the wall, hands in his pockets and smirk firmly in place.

"What'd you do?" Dean demanded. Gabriel had the audacity to roll his eyes.

"What does it look like I did? I popped you back here in 2005, before you and Sam start your whole biblical Kerouacian road trip. You wanted a chance to change things, Captain Free Will. Here you go." He spread his hands wide, as if presenting Dean with a gift.

Dean gaped at him, at the sheer amount of dizzying hope that was beginning to bubble up in his chest. He got a do-over on his fuck ups? He actually had a chance to fix things? "You . . . but . . . why?" he stammered.

Gabriel shrugged. "Maybe I like the world the way it was – is. Maybe I think people deserve a chance. Maybe I want to give some of my holier-than-thou brothers a hard kick in the pants. Or maybe," he grinned, "this is the best prank I can pull on the entire _cosmos._"

With a cackling laugh he disappeared.

Dean blinked at the abrupt exit, then down at his phone again. That stupid hope kept swelling in him, finally easing back the edges of his black hole so his chest felt lighter, his breath easier than it had in months. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

All right. Fresh determination giving him strength, Dean hurried to throw everything in his bag, ready to blow this town. Dad and Sammy were still alive, but so was Azazel. It was old Yellow Eyes who had started the whole goddamn thing, the entire plot to free Lucifer, and had covered his tracks so well nobody knew the endgame until it was too late.

But here, now, Dean knew. And he knew how to stop it.

Whistling to himself, Dean threw his bag into the Impala – looking so shiny and beautiful, his faithful girl – and started her up, the Rolling Stones blaring out from the speakers. Dad didn't want to be found, fine. The demons could chase him around while Dean threw several wrenches in their works.

First he needed to make a pit stop in Manning, Colorado, then . . . Dean let the smile blossom fully, feel it tug muscles unused to the action for so long. He felt like he'd been resurrected again, but this time not into a pine box and a changed world. Now he could seek redemption. Pulling onto the highway, Dean hit the accelerator and headed west.

Vengeance is mine, sayth the Lord. But Dean Winchester felt he was entitled to a little preemptive payback of his own.


End file.
